don’t look at me. They don’t
look in my
eyes cuz they’re afraid they might need to realize that I’m human.
They don’t know what
it’s like not to be able to show the
world who they are. Looking through these eyes of mine... at the world... at
and your parents... it’s hard to believe what your real life consists of.
But, I make a good story, a good laugh, and a good scratching post for the man
with no ego. I’m used to people not looking me in the eye. And that’s
what makes it all seem so unreal to me.
I sit alone, devoid of most things cos my eyes are fixed on a hole in the wall
where his fist was last night. He thinks I am a suitable punching bag sometimes.
I guess he figures he “can’t do much more damage then God’s
already done.” Sometimes my cheek offers too cushy a substance to hit so
he adds to the polka dotted wall. The holes make me happy cuz that’s a
memory of the good nights. Last night was a good night.
We don’t have TV so I go outside to watch my soap operas. Neighbors will
sometimes say hello and shoot the shit for a couple minutes cuz it’s neighborly
and they have to, then they go do for the rest of their days. They don’t
realize that talking- or rather listening- to them may be my only accomplishment
for the day.
Drug dealers are people I can relate with. They can’t look a client in
the eye. If they can its cuz their emotions are gone. Not for fear of being caught,
but for the fear that they may realize that the people they push to are
people and not lab rats or $500. So when I deal with push
ers I feel most
like a human. Cuz I know this guy doesn’t look anyone square in the eye--
not even himself. And what he gives me makes me feel like I’m part of something
real. Even it just makes me a statistic.
I’ve probably seen you before... doing whatever
it is that you do. Maybe
I’ve caught you picking your nose or your ass when you think no one’s
watching. Someone is always watching whether it be me or whether it be yourself.
You’ve seen me too. You glanced right over me like I was a mailbox stationed
in place that wasn’t worth the trouble of examining more closely. You may
feel sorry for me. One moment of remorse for my poor, decrepit soul and your
Good Samaritan act is done for the day. I affect your life for ten minutes. Than,
the thought is thrown away and you move on to better things then mental grief
for a fucked up crazy woman.
Today I think I’m going to stay home. It’s raining a little bit so
I’m just gonna stay here and sit by the window and watch all the people
do a rain dance for me.. scurry here and there... I think maybe rain is good
for the soul. It makes reflections on life seem so much more poetic and meaningful.
I know there’s a great mind trapped in here. Each drop that gets caught
on the window flows into another - the drips are spelling out the answers to
my prayers. Maybethis is the only life I could have known. Maybe if I
had been born blind life would be easier. I wouldn’t see the stares and
disdainful, scornful heathenish looks I get. But then I couldn’t
see what side the fist was coming from. It’s too much sometimes.
Sometimes I believe I can do better and that’s as far as I get. I
just don’t know any better. The rain keeps falling just as sure as
I keep sitting. This past three months hasn’t changed much. I’m
getting out of here.